Food Is The Enemy
by ThatLoyalHufflepuff
Summary: *TW: Anorexia, Eating Disorders and self-hatred.* Based on the Manic!Hetalia AU by dottybox-o. Francis suffers from anorexia, which affects everyone around him. He spirals down into the grips of the disorder. Can Arthur help him, or has anorexia claimed another victim? FrUK. Rated T, but that may change. More details on the AU inside.
1. Chapter 1: The Beginning

**A/N: This can be quite triggering to those suffering/recovering/recovered from anorexia or any other eating disorder. I really hope I capture the feelings involved with the disorder, and I do dottybox-o's AU justice. In this AU, the characters are _not_ countries. Arthur has monophobia; the acute fear of being alone and having to cope without a specific person, or perhaps any person, in close proximity. **

**Disclaimer: The characters of Hetalia do not belong to me, nor does the AU.  
**

* * *

Francis stepped on the scales, his eyes clamped shut. He froze, waiting. Cautiously, he opened his eyes and looked down. His heart broke at the number on the scale. _150 pounds._ His eyes filled with tears, and he dropped to his knees. He held the tears back, his sadness being replaced with disappointment and disgust. He shakily sat down against the bath, the tiles of the bathroom floor cold against his bare skin. He stared into space, thinking. Minutes passed, and voices in his head were screaming at each other.

_Fat._

_Disgusting._

_Worthless._

_Greedy._

"Francis? Is everything alright?" Arthur's concerned voice drifted up the stairs. Francis turned his head towards the door. He called out in reply, his voice thick and distant.

"Y-Yes. I'm fine." He rose to his feet, looking for his clothes. His eye caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Staring back at him was blond man with a tear-stained face. His gaze drifted down to the man's body. His hands snaked across his body, feeling the skin. He pulled at the flesh. His mind contorted the image, so that all he saw was imperfections. His stomach wasn't flat. His arms lacked toning. His legs were long but feminine. His chest was boyish. His skin tone was uneven. He ripped his stare from the reflection, grabbing his clothes. As he dressed, he planned out what he needed to do.

He was done with eating. Food and wine had done this to him. They had made him into this unsightly monster. They were the enemy. He would stop today. From now on, there would nothing fattening or sugary for him. He would keep a food diary, tracking his progress. He needed to feel light, airy and weightless.

He trudged downstairs, his mind on elsewhere. Arthur eyed him carefully as the Frenchman wandered into the living room. "Are you sure you're okay? You were up there for an awfully long time..." He was worried. Normally when Francis spent a long time in the bathroom, it was because he'd been admiring himself in the mirror, and would come downstairs beaming. Now, however, he looked depressed and distracted.

Francis looked up at him, his blue eyes lifeless. His face was paler, and his hands shook slightly. His voice was quiet as he spoke. "Yes. I'm perfectly fine, Arthur?" He jumped to his feet. "Do you want dinner?" Arthur raised his eyebrows, surprised by his love's sudden mood swing.

"Yes, if you insist." He watched Francis leave the room, wondering what on Earth was going on. He shook his head slightly, returning to his book. Soon enough, he was lost in the story.

Francis entered the kitchen, sighing. He gathered the ingredients for Arthur's meal, placing it on the counter. He stared at the bag of pasta, mincemeat, tomatoes, onions and peppers. To anyone else, spaghetti Bolognese seemed a healthy, wholesome meal. To Francis, it was sent from the depths of Hell to ruin him. The tomatoes, onions and peppers were okay, but the starchy pasta and red meat weren't allowed. He began to prepare the meal, his expression turning to one of slight disgust. Once this was done, he washed his hands. And again. And again. He scrubbed the skin, desperate to remove the traces of meat from them. While he left Arthur's food to finish cooking before he served it, he opened the fridge. He searched for some 'safe' food; vegetables. He pulled out an iceberg lettuce, a baby cucumber, and a carrot. He washed, then sliced the vegetables carefully. He added some leftover pepper, arranging them carefully in a bowl for himself. He pushed it to the side, dishing up Arthur's food. He placed both bowls on the table. He wandered back to the living room, poking his head around the door frame.

"Cher, dinner is ready." He watched as Arthur was snapped back to reality. The Englishman closed his book after marking his page, and uncurled himself, rising to his feet. Francis led the way, nibbling on his lip. He pulled out Arthur's chair, allowing him to sit down before he did. Arthur smiled slightly, noticing that Francis' usual habits were returning. However, he frowned when he noticed that they were eating different things, and that Francis had water instead of his usual glass of red wine.

"Francis, why aren't we eating the same thing? And have we run out of wine or something?" Francis froze at Arthur's questions. He swallowed, blinking several times. He slowly lowered his gaze, unable to meet Arthur's eyes. He gripped his fork tightly.

"I... I can't eat those things any more. They're bad for me."


	2. Chapter 2: The Confession

**A/N: In case you were wondering, I'm going by Francis being 5'9. A person of 5'9 weighing 150 pounds has a BMI of about 22. Going by this, Francis really **_**does not**_** need to lose any weight. However, that's often a part of how an anorexia sufferer thinks; they see fat where others don't. Anyway, thank you for your lovely reviews! I'm glad you like the story~**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or this AU.**

"What? What do you mean?" Arthur's eyebrows furrowed as he leaned forward. He looked into Francis' eyes, reading the hurt hidden behind the blue irises. He shook his head slightly, trying to understand what the other meant. Something seemed to click in Arthur's mind. His eyes widened, and his expression changed from one of confusion to fear. "Francis..."

"I can't. I should 'ave stopped long ago. They're changing me and I 'ate it." Francis clenched his jaw, pain evident on his handsome face. "Anyway. Your food is getting cold."

"Francis, that doesn't matter! Talk to me. Please." Francis shook his head in response. Arthur sighed, leaning back slightly. His shoulders sunk. Francis was so _stubborn_ sometimes. He picked up his fork, beginning to eat. He kept his eyes on Francis, who was slowly eating his salad. Arthur scowled into his bowl. He would get to the root of this problem, even if it killed him.

An hour later, the pair were sitting on the sofa. Arthur was watching Doctor Who intently. Francis was curled up, scribbling something down in his notebook. He chewed his lower lip, his brow furrowed. Arthur glanced over to him, noticing how Francis' arm wasn't draped over his shoulders like usual. He leant back, reading what Francis was writing over his shoulder. He cocked his head to the side, concern returning to him. He looked at the Frenchman curiously.

"Francis." His voice broke the silence.

"...Hmm? What is it?"

"Why are you writing in French? Is there something you don't want me to know?" Francis froze. He slowly closed the notebook, tucking it between the cushions of the sofa. Arthur held his hand out.

"Let me see."

"No."

"What? Why not?" Arthur's tone became more forceful, with a hint of frustration behind it. He wanted to see that damn notebook. Even if he couldn't read French properly, he would try his utmost to find out what was bothering Francis. Minutes passed, and Francis hadn't answered him. He stared into the corner of the room, silent and expressionless. His legs were curled up to his chest, and his arms were tightly folded around them. Arthur turned to face him, muting the television. He raised his hand, tucking Francis' golden hair behind his ear. He looked at him for a moment, before speaking.

"Hey." His voice was softer. "I'm sorry for shouting at you. I just want to know what's wrong." Francis turned his head slightly, his eyes flicking to Arthur's. He sighed, tilting his head. He opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head.

"Arthur. I-I can't tell you. I don't know 'ow."

"Try." Francis closed his eyes, covering his face with his hand. He took a deep breath, attempting to speak again. He couldn't get the words out. He grabbed the notebook, flicking to the back of the book. He picked up his pen, hastily writing something. He tore out the page, folding it in half. He stood up, handing it to Arthur. He left the room hurriedly. Arthur took the paper, confused. He unfolded it slowly. His eyes skimmed over the words. He double took, reading it again. His mouth went slack, and his fingers dropped the paper. He jumped up off the sofa, running after his love.

"Francis!" He called out.

The paper lay on the floor. There were five words in it, written messily, as if the writer didn't want to write them. The words read 'I hate how I look.'


	3. Chapter 3: The Explanation

**AN: This is not my best chapter. I just don't like it but I don't think I can make it better, and I need to update. Sorry about the wait everyone! Anyway, here's chapter three~ Let me know what you think of it? Be honest if you can :) Also, I'm sorry if my French is wrong in this, I tried my best.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or this AU.  
**

* * *

Arthur skidded to a stop, his head whipping around as he looked for the distraught Frenchman. He stared into the kitchen, seeing that it was empty. He turned, his gaze falling on the dining room. He stepped into the room, coming to a stop beside the table. He sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the pine surface. His hands tangled in his blonde hair. He heard a faint sniff. He frowned, slowly dragging himself to stand upright. He took a step back, glancing around. He heard the sniff again. Acting on a whim, he squatted down, peeking underneath the table. Curled up in one of the corners under it was Francis. Arthur's shoulders fell.

The man hiding from his secrets under the table was a ghost of his former self. In just a few hours, he had changed from being confident, lively and flirtatious to miserable, insecure and depressed. Arthur crawled under the table, enveloping Francis in his arms. He leaned his head on the other's shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent of roses, baguettes and soap. Francis stared at the floor, his eyes blank and emotionless. He stiffened slightly at Arthur's embrace, not wanting the Englishman to feel him.

"How long have you felt this way?" Arthur's quiet, concerned voice shattered the silence. His green eyes looked down as he anticipated the worst.  
Francis turned his head away, unresponsive. Arthur pulled back, giving Francis a strict look. Francis refused to look at him, silent and stubborn. Arthur bit his lip, sighing. He wanted to scream, but he knew that if he did, Francis would be less likely to answer. So, he just held him, crouched under the table.

* * *

Around half an hour later, Francis turned to look at Arthur. His lifeless blue eyes stared into Arthur's green ones. Francis parted his lips to speak, but closed them again, not finding the words. He leaned his forehead on Arthur's shoulder, closing his eyes. Arthur's hands rubbed Francis' back, feeing the tense muscle beneath the skin.

"I... I don't know." Francis' voice was timid and barely audible. The feelings of loathing had come on quite suddenly, but he supposed they had been harbouring for a while. Slowly, he sat up, finding the bravery to voice his feelings. "Do... Do you want to know what I wrote? I'll translate for you, if you want..." He dropped his gaze, shy and somewhat ashamed. Arthur nodded, his hand moving to brush Francis' cheek. He kissed the Frenchman's forehead, before sliding out from under the table. He stuck his hand out, aiding Francis out from underneath it. Francis sat on the chair, his head in his hands. Arthur gave him a concerned look, before going to retrieve the small, pale blue notebook. He handed it to Francis, who opened it with shaking hands. He cleared his throat, reading what he had written in his elegant handwriting:

_"Je détéste mon corps. C'est dégôutant. Il y a trop de gros. Maintenant, j'ai arrête manger tout de sucreries et de graisses. Mon visage ... n'est pas mauvais. Il est bien, mais pas parfait." _His eyes flicked up to Arthur's face. "Th-That means... 'I 'ate my body. It's disgusting. There is too much fat. Now, I stop eating all sweets and fat. My face isn't bad, but not perfect." He closed the notebook with a snap. He placed it on the table, his movements shaky and nervous.

Arthur stared at him, not knowing what to say. What could he say? He thought for a few seconds, before tilting Francis' face up. He leaned down, pressing their lips together. "You are not disgusting. You're one of the slimmest people I know. If you're fat and disgusting, why have so many people wanted you for so long?" He bent his legs, squatting down in front of Francis. "What brought this on?"

* * *

**Another AN: Manga60123; Thank you! I thought that description you did was really good LOL. I just tend to accidentally skip details like that, since I rush the story so I always think my writing is boring and lacks detail/effect D:**


	4. Chapter 4: The Realisation

**AN: So here it is! Finally, chapter four! I'm also experimenting with a slight change in style, where I do more time skips rather than describing every second. Anyway, let me know what you think of this chapter! This is a more Arthur-centric chapter, especially towards the end. There is not enough UKFr in this fandom and I want to change that~**

**Don't worry, as much as I hardly update (school and exams suck), I haven't given up on this story! I just have a lot of development to do for this story, and I'm thinking this will have around 10 chapters?  
Also, if you spot any foreshadowing in this chapter, let me know! (I tried to put some there heheh)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or this AU**

* * *

Francis squirmed, avoiding the question. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and distant. "I don't know... I guess I finally saw what was real... I'm actually really fat, if you look properly. You probably don't notice, since you don't look at me as much as I do." He looked down, at his stomach. To Arthur, it was perfectly flat and toned. Francis didn't see this: he mistook the harmless folds of skin as rolls of fat, signalling bad health and un-attractiveness. He prodded at them, his fingers digging into them harshly. He glared at it, his upper lip curling up in disgust. He tore his hand away, his gaze lifting to the speechless Englishman in front of him.

"You... You really think that?"

Francis nodded in response, his eyes immediately filling with tears. Arthur gasped sharply, surprised at the sudden show of emotion. For what must have been hours, Francis had acted like he was empty and soulless; a huge contrast to the Francis he fell in love with. He reached out, cupping the Frenchman's cheek. His fingers moulded around the curve from his cheekbone, further reminding him how damaged Francis was to see himself as fat. He brushed his thumb across the smooth skin, looking into those beautiful blue eyes.

"Francis. Listen to me. You..." He took a deep breath, finding the right words. "You're so beautiful. Everything. You don't need to worry, okay? So... Stop this. Now, before it escalates. I'll help you." He leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to Francis' forehead. He trailed his hand down Francis' arm, taking his hand and gently pulling him out from under the table. He stood them both up, his arms instantly wrapping around Francis' waist. He felt the muscles there tense, almost as if Francis was scared of Arthur touching him. He bit his lip, leaning into him. He waited anxiously, before the familiar warmth of Francis' hug enveloped him. They stood, silently. Francis' head rested on Arthur's shoulder, his eyes clamped shut against the tears that threatened to overflow. Arthur's anxious eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, and he pulled away slightly, his hands remaining on Francis' waist.

"Come on. It's 9 'o' clock: our usual cuddle time." Arthur smiled broadly, leading him to the front room. A shadow of a smile graced Francis' lips, and he sat on the sofa. His hands flicked forward, motioning for Arthur to sit. The Englishman did so, curling into his chest as he drew a fluffy blanket over them. He looked up, watching Francis sadly. Whenever Francis was upset, is was clearly evident on his face, in his voice and in the way he acted. His eyes widened as he remembered something. He had work tomorrow, and Francis didn't.

He would be alone for almost the whole day.

"Francis." His English accented voice was frantic, piercing through the silence.

"Hmm?" Was the curious reply, as Francis peered down to meet his eyes.

"Don't do anything silly tomorrow. I mean it. You've got to eat. Oh, and no hurting yourself or cutting your hair. Promise?"

"Promise..." Francis reluctantly agreed, knowing that if he didn't, Arthur would either lie to his boss and say he was ill or send someone to look after him. Francis lifted his gaze from the Brit's face, staring into space. He had just promised to eat. He thought for a while, before suppressing a triumphant smirk. He hadn't promised _what_ to eat. He had his food diary, and his plan. Tomorrow, nothing but fruit or vegetables would be eaten. He was considering starting clearing out the fattening, carbohydrate ridden pastries that lingered in his pantry, in what Arthur dubbed his 'French corner'. He gave a light chuckle, hugging the Englishman closer to him.

Arthur glanced up, eyeing him curiously. He reached a pale hand up, poking the underside of his jaw. Francis flinched, frowning as he looked down. "What?"

"Stop staring." Arthur's forest green eyes were narrowed with worry, scared that Francis was thinking things he shouldn't. He hated this. He hated that he couldn't control how Francis thought. He hated how the Frenchman that he adored so much was so stubborn, and determined to be 'perfect', not realising how Arthur already thought he was. He sighed, resting his head on Francis' chest.

"Why?"

Arthur didn't respond to the question. After all, how would he explain? How would he explain how it was killing him to know that Francis wasn't happy with his appearance? How would he explain how Francis' sudden change in personality scared him? How would he explain that he was terrified? How would he explain that he had automatically diagnosed Francis with anorexia? How would he explain that he was petrified by the thought that Francis could die from this illness?

He couldn't.

So he didn't. He just sat there, against Francis' toned chest. Something in him knew that this could be the last time he saw Francis healthy. His hands traced over his body, memorising it. He sat up, unbuttoning Francis' pale blue shirt. He pushed it over his strong shoulders, ignoring the confused expressions and words he received. His hands ran over the slightly tanned skin, his fingertips brushing against the blond chest hair, settling against the muscle of his abdomen. He repeated the action along Francis' arms, tracing the blue veins on the inside of his wrists. He swung his leg around, straddling his waist. His hands snaked round to Francis' back, gentle fingertips drawing patterns into his smooth skin. He trailed his nose along Francis' long neck, and he captured the other's lips in a kiss. He pulled back, meeting the beautiful azure eyes that only held a fraction of the previous sparkle.

"Make love to me."

Francis was silent for a second, before responding. His hand rested on Arthur's ass, the other wrapping around his waist. He stood, lifting his lover effortlessly. He kissed him again, carrying him out of the room. Arthur buried his head in Francis' neck, so that the Frenchman wouldn't see the tears that threatened to spill over. The Englishman's hands clenched against the skin of his back, pulling him down for another, more passionate kiss as he was placed down on the plush bed.


	5. Chapter 5: The Arguments

**AN: I can't seem to write longer chapters today, hmm. This is more just character development and a little more timeskipping, and me experimenting with another new style ovo**

It had been a month since Francis had confessed how he felt. Their relationship had strained to the point that sometimes Arthur wasn't sure if there was still any feelings other than resentment and anger. But of course there was; there had to be. If there was no love, he wouldn't be arguing with Francis daily, screaming at him to eat. He wouldn't be wiping his tears, trying to hold him late at night. He wouldn't be trying to hide Francis blue notebook from him, knowing it made him worse. If there was no love, Francis wouldn't be relying on Arthur. If there was no love, he wouldn't be trying to make himself perfect for him. If there was no love, they wouldn't be together.

Except, it wasn't the same type of love. It was forced, tense. They hadn't made love since that one night. It was surprising, really. Arthur had _tried_. He had tried to love him, to give him affection and contact, what Francis had always asked for. He had tried his hardest, only to get shoved away angrily, hissed swear words dissolving his determination. It was as if Francis didn't want to be touched or loved by him. Arthur didn't know what to do. Francis had become cold, withdrawn and moody. His skin looked translucent, with a greyish tinge around the edge. He had lost a fair amount of weight already; surely five pounds was ridiculous for only a few weeks? His hair looked lank and greasy, the shine gone. His deep blue eyes no longer sparkled, the life all but gone. It was strange how much he had changed in four weeks.

It was more than strange. It was terrifying.

It was terrifying how much this... Weight complex had changed Francis. He still cooked for Arthur, but he looked sickened and disgusted by the food as he did so. Arthur had offered to cook, only to receive an angry glare and be shoved out of the kitchen. Francis still barely ate. He survived on an apple and two carrots a day, as well as enough water to fill an ocean. "Water has no calories", he once said when asked why he drank so much. Arthur nearly burst into tears there and then. He couldn't deal with this. He couldn't deal with coming home from work every day hoping to God that Francis was still alive. He couldn't deal with leaving him every morning, desperately kissing him in fear that it would be their last. He couldn't deal with working longer hours as an English tutor than Francis, who worked in a local salon. To both of their surprise, Arthur cried more than Francis. Every night, he would spend hours curled into the Frenchman, sobbing. He would press his hands into every crevice of his body, comparing each amount of bone he could feel with the night before. It wasn't as drastic as he thought, but he was still horrified by how he could practically feel Francis losing weight.

The worst was hearing Francis crying, locked in the bathroom. He didn't think five pounds was enough. Arthur had stumbled across a crumpled piece of paper tucked under the sofa when hoovering. It had four words and two numbers.

'Start - 150lbs.  
End - 100lbs or less'

That had been the start of their biggest argument, the one that resulted in Francis leaving in anger while Arthur begged him to come home. He didn't mean anything bad. He just wanted Francis to see that he was being ridiculous. He was a perfect weight. It didn't matter if Francis was heavier than him! He was taller, broader and far more muscular. He always had been heavier. The thing with Francis was, he didn't gain muscle as easily as he lost fat. So even though everyone around him knew he was muscular, he never believed it since he didn't look like Alfred or Ludwig.

Francis would spend almost all of his free time out for a run. He stopped going to the gym with Gilbert and Antonio after they started questioning why he was so tiny and unable to exercise like he used to. He was weaker, feeble and lethargic. He could barely stand up without getting light headed, let alone lift weights. He would be gone for at least half an hour, running as if he was being chased. Once, he didn't come home for three hours. Arthur went looking for him, finding him passed out on a bench in the park. The Englishman had to carry him home, terrified he wouldn't wake up.

Arthur booked Francis in for a doctor's appointment that night.


	6. Chapter 6: The Start

**AN: And finally we have some movement in the plot! I'm not sure how many chapters will be after this, maybe four or five? Anyway, I hope you enjoy this! In all honesty, I could have written more but I'm a bit pressed for time and I wanted this out today. Reviews are always welcome~**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or the mania! AU**

* * *

"I'm not going!"

Another day, another argument. It had been a week since Arthur had found Francis unconscious in the park, and the doctor's appointment was later that afternoon. Arthur rolled his eyes at the dramatic screams, all but dragging Francis out of the house. He winced, feeling his fingers digging into the bone of Francis' wrists, the ulna pressing into his palm. He could feel every sinew and tendon move as Francis struggled. He yanked him forward, pulling the Frenchman into his chest.

"We're getting this sorted out _now._" Arthur's voice was lower, commanding. If he had to physically force Francis to the doctor, he would. Slamming the door shut, he ignored Francis' insults and protests, throwing his boyfriend over his shoulder. He opened the passenger side of the car, shoving him in and closing the door quickly, making sure he didn't catch Francis' legs in the door.

He climbed into the driver's seat, eyeing Francis, who had folded his arms and turned away, sulking. Yet, the Frenchman had his seat belt on. It looked like Arthur had won. Buckling himself in, Arthur started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, starting the short journey to the doctor. It was tense, silent. He could hear Francis breathing, almost fuming. He didn't understand why Francis was being so difficult! All he wanted was to get him help, to get him healthy again.

Francis didn't understand why Arthur was doing this to him. Why could Arthur see he was doing this for _him_? He wanted to be attractive, to be light and airy, to be someone Arthur was proud to be seen with. Not like he is now; with his lazy resolve leaving his body fat and unsightly. He wanted to be flat and smooth. He didn't want to worry about crushing Arthur to death every time he sat on him, or lay on him. He didn't want to worry about smothering him every time they made love and he was on top. He didn't want Arthur to be disgusted by him.

He wiped a stray tear from his cheek, turning further away. He didn't want Arthur to see he was crying. He had been strong so far, focusing less on his emotions and more on his goal. The Englishman heard a slight sniffle, and tore his gaze from the road for a second, wondering. Was he crying? All he could see was a mass of blond hair cascading over those broad shoulders that he loved so much. He reached out, hand atop of Francis' knee.

"We're nearly there." For the first time in weeks, Francis didn't push his hand away. He slowly, cautiously, turned Arthur's hand over. Biting his lip, he threaded their fingers together, holding his hand, clutching onto it for dear life. Arthur focused on the road, sighing. Francis' fingers were trembling slightly, the way they did when they watched horror movies together, the Frenchman either hiding behind him or a pillow.

"I'm scared." His words were barely audible, choked out. Arthur squeezed Francis' hand, almost reminding him.

"Don't be. I'm here. Nothing will happen to you." He raised Francis' hand to his lips, gently kissing the back of his thin hand. No matter what, Arthur would take care of Francis, the way Francis did for him when they were younger. He knew Francis was scared; he was too. He was scared of what he knew was true. He was scared of what the doctor would say. He was scared of what would happen to Francis, what would happen to them.

* * *

Arthur sat in the corner of the room while the doctor worked on Francis. He would have been in the waiting room, but the Frenchman wanted him near. In all honesty, he didn't trust the doctor. He didn't trust that he wouldn't do something to him, something to ruin his careful diet. That's all it was; a diet. It wasn't an illness, or an addiction, so there was no reason to be here, Francis thought.

The Frenchman kept stealing glances at Arthur as he went through the procedures. He was measured and weighed, resulting in him nearly crying to see that he had only lost six pounds in total. Six pounds in five weeks. Arthur shook his head, frustrated and distraught as he saw Francis start to panic. He turned away as Francis was pulled into another room for blood tests, not wanting to think of the possibilities.

Just before they went home, the doctor sat Francis down. He explored his face, noting certain things down. Arthur joined from across the room, carefully watching Francis. His skin was obviously discoloured, and there were fine, almost baby hairs on his face. His stubble was thicker, blonder. Was this something to do with how Francis always seemed to be cold?

Then came the questions. Arthur rolled his eyes. It was all so _obvious_. Of course Francis had an issue with food! They wouldn't be here if he didn't. He waited as the idiotic doctor finished, then stood. He held his hand out to Francis, who took it eagerly, leading him out of the surgery.

* * *

The moment they arrived home, Arthur pressed a gentle kiss to Francis' lips, almost pleading. He wanted him. He wanted to hold him, to love him. He wanted their physical relationship, the passionate one they used to have before all this started. He placed his hands on Francis' thin waist, pulling him closer. He rested their foreheads together, meeting his eyes. Pressing gentle kisses to his lips, he began to walk them towards the stairs, hinting. If Francis didn't understand by now, then he would never understand.

Squirming, Francis rested his hands on Arthur's shoulders, pushing him away. "No... I don't want to..." He looked down, before backing away. He shrugged apologetically, before scurrying into the living room, throwing himself onto the sofa. Kicking his shoes off, he fluffed out his hair, rolling over. Exhaustion hit him suddenly, and he let his eyes droop closed. Smiling softly, he heard Arthur creep in behind him, sitting by his feet. He lifted his legs, allowing the Brit to slide underneath him.

"I still love you." Francis' voice was soft, on the edge of sleep. Arthur looked over at him, just starting to flick through the TV channels - Sherlock was calling him. Francis' hands were tucked under his handsome face, hair pushed over the arm of the sofa. Arthur's hand rubbed along his hip, fingers moulding around the bone. He patted him gently, looking back up.

"I know. I love you too."


End file.
